


the wanderer and the wild

by parchedmint



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Multi, Temporary Character Death, Timeline? What Timeline?, WIP, breath of the wild AU, in the way of video games i mean, like oh no you died now try again, playing around with different bits of canon to make them suit my needs, superimposing witcher lore onto botw structure, tbc, the witcher wiki has blank spaces in weird places, this slapped me in the face at 4 am a week ago and hasn’t let me forget it, you don’t need to have played botw to follow this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchedmint/pseuds/parchedmint
Summary: “Where were you in all this? Why am I not dead?”“I was too far up the mountain,” the woman explains, “and you’re not dead because you always get wrapped up in shit you’re not supposed to, Geralt.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, tbc - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if i’ve done this right, you won’t need to have played botw to follow what’s going on, mostly bc this is 80% witcher stuff. please let me know if you get terribly lost!! the summary is liable to change as the plot carries on.  
> anyways i’m not sure where this came from and tbh i’m terribly insecure about it. it’s been a long time since i’ve written anything, much less stress-fueled 4 am unloading on a gdoc writing. i looked over it for major errors but i wouldn’t be able to look my friend in the eye if i handed this to her so it is, woefully, unbeta’d. a lot of this is still in the air bc planning is for people who aren’t me. also please forgive me for the number of liberties i took and will take in the future with canon and actual happenings in either game/show. <3  
> thank you for stopping by! please let me know what you think!!

He wakes.

It doesn’t happen quickly. He doesn’t startle or jump to full wakefulness. He is at peace, fully encompassed in an endless darkness; he hardly registers that he is anything at all. It’s at once both entirely foreign and all he knows.

Then, a flicker of unease. The strangeness starts to weigh on him. He is no longer a mere presence, floating in the ether, but a body. A living thing. All at once he feels the weight of himself, the pressure in his lungs and the chill that clings to him, and the unease only grows. He wants, for a fraction of a second, to return to the darkness, but he already knows he cannot go back. There’s something in the air that calls to him, but it doesn’t have a voice. It’s a warning. There is a prickling at the back of his neck and he breathes.

Next there is light, a cold blue that seeps between the lids of his eyes and strips away the last vestiges of soothing nothingness. He blinks against the cruelty of it, and all at once his eyes begin to stream and his pupils constrict painfully. The light is centered in his line of sight, part of a massive stoneworking that glows with an unknown pattern. The contraption is fixed into the ceiling above him, reaching down with strange whorls and dots of blue. He observes the steady glow and takes stock of his surroundings in silence.

First, a stretch of his fingers, to his wrists, down to his knees and easing the stiffness in his back. He has been lying down for an extended period of time and his muscles feel weak from lack of use. His eyes have since adjusted and follow the gentle flow of mist in the air, searching for a vent. He finds none. The silence presses on his eardrums, the sounds of his body his only reprieve. His right wrist cracks as he sits himself up.

The walls are made of the same stone as the source of light: the raised whorls have been pressed into a series of straight lines that branch into different angles seemingly at random, pinned at the ends with a bright orange point. They look like constellations, but none that he recognizes. The wall itself is a lusterless onyx - in fact, every surface in the room is made of the same strange material, with intricate fallow designs piped on. They seem to tell a story, but not one he can understand.

A clear liquid finishes its slow drain through the spaces between the bars beneath him, clinging to his skin and close-fitting braies. It could be water, if not for the subtle texture he feels as he wicks it off his arms. It evaporates quickly, drying the moment he begins to move. He hoists himself up and over the raised lip of his resting place, sliding down the gentle curve of the outside and using it to get his feet under him. He's clumsy and the act of standing upright makes him dizzy.

What he thought was simply stone has a different texture under his fingers and feet - though raised and sculpted, the curves are gentle and smooth. There are letters stamped into the rim, glowing like the structure above his head. He rubs at them with his thumb but they refuse to suddenly warp into something he can read. He begins to grow tired of not understanding his surroundings.

One careful step forward, then another. He turns slowly to take in the rest of the room, which is much the same, decoratively speaking. The fallow stonework forms a path to the wall in front of him, crawling up to create an elaborate doorframe. The door itself, upon further investigation, is actually a series of bars shut tight and engraved with similar lettering. To its left, just off the marked path, a dark podium has been installed.

He's studying the angular script on the door when the podium flares to life. The inlaid design on its surface shines a steady blue. It is dissimilar in shape to the ones on the walls, but still reminiscent of the stars. He makes his way over to investigate, taking surer steps with each passing moment. As he approaches, a smaller circle rises, and from that, a strange rectangular object. It rotates in its seat and fixes him with a glowing stare. He pauses - hesitates - feels compelled to reach out and take it. It leaves the pedestal with a soft click.

It feels wrong in his hand, like his body knows that this object was not made for him. He runs a finger over the eye embossed on its surface, constructed with the same colors and materials as the rest of the room. The iris, like almost everything else in this cursed place, is blue, and neither hot nor cold to the touch. One end has been shaped like a handle. The whole thing is slightly too small for his hands to hold comfortably. He turns it over, half suspecting another eye on the other side. Instead, the majority of the space is a dark panel of something like glass. He gets a glimpse of his own reflection before it lights up with an image of an eye, similar to the one on the back.

Sudden movement draws his attention away from the strange tablet: the pedestal retracts back into the podium and the bars blocking the doorway slide up, revealing another room. He heeds the silent suggestion and goes to investigate.

The next room is longer, with a ramp leading to a lower level. Four witchlight torches cast a dim glow on the space, catching on dust particles and the corners of a stack of wooden boxes. It would take more strength than he currently has to pry these open without a tool, so he turns his attention to the other curiosities: a pair of stone chests with metal hinges. They aren't locked. He kneels down, digs his fingertips into the grooves, and heaves until they creak open.

The first chest contains the shredded remains of a deep navy doublet, piled sadly in one corner of the interior, and a black tunic made for someone of his size. The doublet is far too small and amounts to little better than rags, but the tunic fits over his head so he takes a moment to dress. The second chest houses a pair of trousers, once again sewn for someone of his stature. These are made of quilted cotton and cracking leather and fit quite comfortably. Finally, he discovers a pair of equally worn boots amid a tangle of brown leather belts, one with a suspiciously rectangular-shaped holster attached. He belts that around his hips and slides the strange tablet into its place. It fits perfectly, because of course it does. The others he wrangles until one sits over one shoulder and the other settles above the belt that carries the tablet. They also fit very comfortably, and the act of strapping them on feels natural.

The boots are shit, though.

It seems obvious that these things were left expressly for him. After all, he's alone in this strange keep. He mulls over the implications of this as he trots down the ramp to explore the rest of the room.

The bars that make up the door at the end of the hall are as big around as he is, and much taller. Another pedestal waits just to the right. The surface of this one glows orange, and no tablet emerges when he comes near. He considers this, removes the tablet from its holster, and looks between the two. There's no space to slot it in, either, but he's not all that attached to the spooky thing so if this podium eats it he won't be too sad. Mind made up, he taps the tablet smooth side-down onto the orange design. It promptly changes color and for a moment, nothing happens.

 _Elder slate confirmed_ , someone whispers in his ear, but there's no one there when he whirls around. The whole room shakes, knocking him off balance. Yet another eye lights up in the center of the door - something rattles, shifts - and the bars slide up into the ceiling. Natural light floods the room, so bright that it cuts through the mist and touches the room he woke up in. It's blinding, and beautiful.

His feet move before his eyes are done adjusting. This path is weather worn and muddy, the stairs grey with accumulated dirt and dust. Sunlight outshines the constellations on the walls. The top of the stairs flattens out to a half-flooded grassy area - possibly there used to be another set of stairs, as the border on the bottom of the wall crumbles to nothing after a point and he finds himself faced with a stone face his height and a half. He effortlessly hoists himself up and over the edge and continues up the steps to the exit. It's bright, and green, and anticipation claws at his ankles until he's jogging, then outright running. He bursts out the entrance of the cave at a sprint and only stops when he reaches the edge of the cliff before him.

A light breeze ruffles his hair as he takes in the view beneath him: scattered forests swaying, clouds clinging to far-off mountain ranges, seas of grassy fields stretching luxuriously before him. Sparkling lakes and rivers reflect the mid-afternoon sun. Stunned at the beauty of it all, he sits in the knee-high grass and watches the world for a while.

The tablet chimes softly. He ignores it.

The sun has begun to dance with the tops of the furthest mountains when he decides to move on. There's a tall stone structure at the end of a gentle trail to his right. Perhaps there are other people there. He brushes grass and dirt off his clothes and follows the slope down, stopping to pick a few apples from the many trees that line the path. At one point he passes a rocky overhang with the remains of a campsite underneath, and slightly further down, a well-used axe. He eyes it for several long moments, sorely tempted to take it, but it could belong to someone so he refrains.

A bell-like sound comes from the tablet, and this time he decides to heed its call. Tucking the apples into his pocket, he pulls it out to investigate. The flat surface, previously marked only with an eye, is now a dark, flat expanse with a vaguely wave-like pattern. There are two points of interest: a yellow arrowhead pointing away from his body and a golden dot. The dot is a fair distance away from the arrow, pulsing occasionally. He frowns at the tablet and turns away, making to put it back. But a movement on the little thing catches his eye and he looks at it again. The arrow has changed angles. He hums thoughtfully and takes a step to the right. The arrow moves accordingly. It rotates when he does, and an orange diamond with a vaguely cave-like symbol inside pops up when he prods at it. A map, maybe, but not like any he's ever seen.

So distracted is he by this new development that he doesn't realize he's being targeted until it's too late. An unearthly shriek raises the hair on the back of his neck and the ground rushes up to meet him - or, he's been tackled by something that digs sharp claws into his flesh. He grunts, caught off-guard, and tries to roll to shake it off. But its claws are long and accompanied by gnashing teeth that rip into him ruthlessly, and he is deafened by their screams as several more dig their claws in and _tear_. He flails until he can grab one, throws it, snarls as another two come to take its place. He rolls again and makes eye contact with one of his attackers as it lunges for his throat -

There are freshly-picked apples in his hands and he's halfway to the overhang. The air has just begun to cool with the turn of the day. He has just died - or has he? He felt the hot spill of his own blood, but when he looks down, his clothes are clean. He is not in pain, and now that he’s not distracted by the tablet’s strange workings, he can hear the creatures’ distant rustling and hissing as though they stand right next to him.

"The nekkers got you, huh."

He exhales sharply and spins to find the speaker. At first he doesn't see anyone, but then his gaze slides up. There’s a woman watching him from atop the overhang. She is of average height, with a wild tangle of dark hair and darker eyes. She jumps down and lands lightly, setting her basket down by the old fire pit before sauntering over. She looks him up and down with a hum.

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” she continues. “You didn’t even pick up a stick to defend yourself. What were you thinking?”

“Forgive me for not expecting to get mauled the moment I stepped outside,” he replies, inexplicably defensive. He has no reason to take offense - if this is the sort of world that exists outside his keep, then he should have known better. But he didn’t know, and the more he thinks on it, the less he seems to know at all. The questions mount.

“You should have known better,” she rebuts, confirming his thoughts on the matter. “There are monsters everywhere - the nekker burrow is over the cliff side but they’re not exactly subtle. I would say it was a pathetic show but mostly it hurt to watch.”

“It hurt to experience,” he agrees with a scowl. His voice creaks with lack of use. “Where were you in all this? And why am I not dead?”

“I was too far up the mountain,” the woman explains, “and you’re not dead because you always get wrapped up in shit you’re not supposed to, Geralt.”

“How do you know my name?” he asks, and it is his. If she had asked him only a moment ago what his name was, he wouldn’t have been able to answer, but he knows his own name spoken aloud.

The woman’s face twists; her eyes darken further. “Be hard to forget the name of my killer.”

This statement steals away the next five questions he was going to ask. She must be able to see it on his face because she sighs and shakes her head sharply.

“Later. It’s getting dark and I’d rather you didn’t get mauled in front of my face again. Can I trust you to sit here and wait for me to return? And no,” she adds before he can open his mouth, “they won’t come near so long as the fire is kept up.”

“Why should I trust you to not maul me yourself?” Geralt asks. “Especially with what you said earlier.”

She smiles. It’s not altogether unfriendly. “That’s been settled,” is all she says, turning to begin her hike up the mountainside again. “Behave, and should you feel the need to explore again at least bring a weapon!”

He calls after her, but she either can’t hear him or chooses to ignore him. Geralt stops for a minute and surveys his options. He’s beginning to understand that he’s sorely lacking in memories, and the person who seems to have answers has just walked away. He could follow her, but he doesn’t know the area and she could easily use the terrain against him. He could go down to the tall building at the bottom of the hill, but he’ll have to pass the nekkers again to do it and now that he’s closer it looks..... dilapidated. It occurs to him that aside from this campsite he hasn’t seen any other signs of activity: no smoke, no fire, no hustle and bustle of a town and no smell. He can’t recall the last time he’s been to a town or village, but he knows it must smell.

He only has her word to go off of, but what else is there? Some sticks and a decidedly uninhabited ruin? His decision’s been made for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and sets to building the fire. At least he remembers how to do this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was difficult, because dialogue is hard and this chapter is 99% talking. i wanted to get more done sooner, but honestly the first bit i posted just kinda flew out of my fingers and i wasn’t solid on the plot. after endless whining at my poor beta (who still hasn’t read this, thankfully,,, or maybe not thankfully bc this chapter feels rougher) i’ve finally put together the plot and ohhh boy. it’ll be fun. it may not look like it, but the story already starts to come together in this chapter. let me know if you notice anything!
> 
> anyways i wanted to thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts with me! it means a lot <3 like sooo so much. my entire week made. my MONTH. please enjoy this next chapter!! more fun stuff to come!!

The night passes without further incident. Geralt sits with his back pressed to stone, facing the fire and the forest head-on in silence. He is wide awake and vigilant. Firelight aside, the moon is bright and he can see a fair distance into the trees that line the path. More than once he catches a glimpse of grey skin and sharp claws. The sounds are unsettling, but the woman was true to her word: with the fire roaring between himself and the dark of night, he is not disturbed. 

She is light on her feet, but he can hear her approaching as the sun rises. 

"You're awake," she observes, hopping down from atop the overhang. She's got a long bundle strapped to her back, wrapped in a dusty brown blanket and tied with twine. Geralt hums in response, releasing some of the tension from his shoulders with a slow breath.

"Not tired?" she teases as she unstraps the bundle and lays it out on the ground. 

"There are things that can kill me a stone's throw away," he responds, dry as dust. "Forgive me for not letting my guard down." 

"That's twice you've begged my forgiveness," she says in a humorous tone, with an oddly appraising note lingering underneath. "Should I get used to this?" 

"You gonna keep criticizing my decisions?" 

"Maybe," she says breezily. "What, then. Didn't want to get your hands dirty getting rid of the nekkers?"

Geralt snorts. "With what, that rusty axe? From what I experienced they're quick on their feet. The axe would be too slow and unwieldy." 

"Fair. But you can catch them with these." She times this clever statement with a final twitch of her fingers to release the twine - she's carried over a pair of gleaming steel swords. One has a brown leather-wrapped hilt and the other's is aged ivory. Both weapons are sharp and well cared-for. "Go on, take one."

He glances around the small campsite to make sure that they will be safe to exercise in peace and discovers that the nekkers have retreated to the edge of the cliff with the start of the day. Sunlight dances through the treetops of the surrounding forest, stroking each blade of grass and illuminating the small, brightly colored flowers that pepper the old path down the mountain. Gentle birdsong cuts through the air, accompanying the early morning activity of a group of squirrels as they play in the trees. Peace, indeed. 

The woman watches him take in the beauty of the day with an unfamiliar glint in her eyes. 

"What's your name?" he asks finally, making no move to touch either blade. 

"Oh, now you ask," she says. "I was beginning to think you didn't care at all."

"The opportunity to ask didn't come up. The horrible death, and all."

"Of course," she agrees. "It's Renfri." 

"Renfri," Geralt hums, studying her closely. She sits back on her heels and stares back, eyebrows raised innocently. She's dressed in the same clothes as yesterday: a thick grey cloak, a red blouse, dark trousers. A dagger sheathed at her hip. Armored lightly in leather at the arms, knees, and shins. And behind the eyes.

"Find what you're looking for?" Renfri inquires. 

"Not sure what I was supposed to find," he admits readily. "Answers? I have a lot of questions."

"I imagine so," she responds. "Can I see your hand?"

He offers it readily for her to examine. She reaches out and takes it, one hand grasping his wrist. 

"All the beauty sleep in the world can’t get rid of those sword calluses, huh," she comments, prodding at his palm with one finger. He tugs his hand gently out of her grasp, forming a fist. 

"You know me," he observes. "You know what happened to me. You know where I was." 

Her hands fall to her lap, good humor evaporated. 

"You said I killed you," he reminds her. It’s just one of the many things he spent the night mulling over, and he doesn't like the picture that it paints of him and his history. Right now, that’s all he has: Renfri’s claim that he murdered her, and her mention that he has a propensity for getting into trouble. 

"It was more complicated than that," she says, closing off. She meets his gaze with a somber expression. "It still is. You gave me a chance but I wanted to play the monster. And you know what, Geralt? I still don't regret it. Maybe I should, but I don't."

"I don't know," he says wryly. “And who am I to pass judgement on monsters?”

Renfri huffs. "Right. So you don't remember me, and you don’t remember yourself. Is there anything you do know?”

"My name.”

She snorts out an inelegant laugh, lips twitching up into another smile that strains around the edges as moments pass without further input from Geralt. “You’re joking.”

“Am I the joking type?” 

“Never seemed like it,” she replies. “But we didn’t know each other very long.”

Geralt accepts that. “But you knew me for a short while?”

“I did,” she says, gesturing to the swords for the second time. “I’ll tell you what: best me in a quick spar and I’ll tell you how we met.” 

“This seems unfair,” he comments, but he reaches for the sword with the leather-wrapped hilt all the same. “Who’s to say I know how to use a blade at all?”

Renfri flashes him a sharp smile and leaps to her feet, scooping up the other blade with grace. “Here’s the first thing I know about you,” she tosses over her shoulder, slipping away from the campsite and dropping into a quick stretch. “You’ve been trained extensively in sword fighting.”

“I can only hope that training has stuck with me,” Geralt says, resigned, and gets to his feet to join her. 

It has not stuck with him.

“You definitely have muscle memory.”

“And no idea how to apply it,” he grunts. Renfri steps off his chest and shrugs, allowing him to draw a full breath for the first time in several long seconds. He gives a short cough and heaves himself to an upright position from where she'd had him pinned in the grass. There are a few damp patches on his tunic from crushed flowers and morning dew, and leaf litter clings stubbornly to his arms. The sun has risen over the mountain top, shining into his eyes as he gets to his feet. "That was enlightening. You could've ended me just now." 

"I can control my insatiable bloodlust for five minutes," she says dryly, but despite the joking tone the look in her eyes says that there's a story behind it. "You, on the other hand, were too restrained. You held back." 

He hadn't noticed, and he tells her so. 

"That's because I know how you used to fight," she says. "Back then, you fought with everything you had. Today you were missing something." 

"Something like my memories?" he deadpans. She snorts derisively and returns to the fire, digging through the basket she'd left the night before. 

"Well," she announces, pulling out a pair of covered bowls and a small knife, "you didn't beat me. But I'll still tell you what I know."

Renfri shows him where to find water, her favorite way to bake apples, how to sneak past the nekkers, whispers advice in his ear as though it's a foregone conclusion that he'll have to kill them. He's a monster hunter, she says, and the reason he'd killed her is because she'd chosen to become one. Her history comes out in small bursts, between various small details she remembers of before. Geralt's heart aches for the tragedies that she lived, but he doesn't know how to put it to words, so he just listens quietly as the day passes and the words grow harder to hear. 

The apples are delicious. 

"I don't know much about how you got here," she admits. "I wasn't there when everything happened. Don't think they were expecting you, though."

She doesn't elaborate on who they are, but she does ask about how and when he woke in his keep. The shrine, she calls it. After a bit of badgering, he shows her the tablet. The panel refuses to light up in her hands and she frowns at it. 

"They definitely weren't expecting you," she decides, offering it back to him. "What're you supposed to do with this? Your lot don't really use magic - not to this scale."

Then who was supposed to be in his place? If he wasn't supposed to use the tablet - the slate - then who can? It's borderline useless to him anyways. The map has no landmarks, only that distant glowing circle, which he hasn't attempted to find yet. Geralt stores the tablet away with a frustrated huff, fending off the more rudely existential thoughts with a decisive bite of baked apple. 

The afternoon sun threatens to encroach on the scrap of shade that clings to their campsite. Neither of them speak for several long minutes, allowing the sounds of the breeze rustling the leaves and the cries of wildlife to fill the silence. 

"There's nobody up here but us," Renfri says at last. "I've been all over. The whole princedom has long been abandoned."

"Princedom?" Geralt repeats. 

"We're in what used to be Creyden," Renfri says, with a ghostly shadow of a smile. It rests poorly on her face. "This was my home, you know? I used to be the princess. But then everything happened, and Cairngorn conquered the land, and it all fell apart. We're isolated now, cut off from the rest of the Continent."

"How?" 

Renfri shakes her head. "I don't know. The whole land has been elevated, hundreds of feet in the air. There's an cliff and everything, like we're at the edge of a map. You can't get down - it's impossible. You'd die trying." 

"So you've tried then?" Geralt asks, with an edge of humor. He's died, and she's died, and they're both still here. He doesn't understand why the concept of death seems to mean nothing here. If neither of them are truly gone, why should a wall stop her? 

She gives him a funny look. "No. I'm tied to this place. Probably waiting for you, if I know anything about how these things go. Which I don't," she adds. "A little foresight at inconvenient times has done nobody any good, especially not me and definitely not you. Look where you are, after all." 

"Not dead," he points out. 

"No memories," she retorts. "No idea what the world looks like. You were a whole different animal, Geralt, and now look at you. Felled at the claws of a couple scrawny nekkers. The gods are laughing at us." She punctuates this statement with a broad gesture at the sky. Clouds are beginning to gather, dampening the warmth of the day. 

Geralt's thoughts have latched on to one specific part of her tirade, circling around them even as they sting, prodding at a deeper hurt he was previously unaware of. "I'm not an animal," he says, more quietly than he intended. 

Renfri deflates. "No," she agrees. "You never were. I only meant that you were a very efficient hunter, except when I wanted you to be."

That evening, after Renfri has left him for the night, Geralt decides that he wants to see the border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been thinking about making a twitter or tumblr where i can throw up the map i’ve chosen to use and the paths the characters take. which do you prefer?

**Author's Note:**

> i need you to know how close i was to making the main character of this jaskier. like, so close. the original 4 am writing fury was 2k of jaskier having opinions and embellishing all description. it got frustrating and i think geralt fits better anyways but WOW. sorely tempted.
> 
> for any possible readers who haven’t played botw (pls play this game) here’s where geralt woke up.  
> https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/zelda/images/b/b3/Shrine_of_Ressurection.jpg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/1000?cb=20170529103839


End file.
